Angel of Ruin (38 page)

“I know not,” it said. “Good morning.” The demon vanished, leaving Anne and Mary clutching hands by the river.

“Oh, no,” Mary said as a gust of wind roared overhead, and a cloud of sparks eddied up into it.

“What have we done, Mary?” Anne said softly. “What have we done?”

Anne could not bring herself to open her prayer book and read along with the congregation. In her addled state — she had only slept two restless hours after her early morning adventure with Mary — Anne imagined the angels listening to her praying would instead hear the false notes of her guilty soul, see her dark heart and judge her. She could not bring herself to utter the name of Christ, her mild and loving erstwhile hero, for she suspected that last night she may have become a murderer.

Master Allard began his sermon, and Anne glanced up and down the pew. Father’s back was ramrod-straight, his hair combed neatly. Deborah sat next to him, her leg pressed against Anne’s. On Anne’s other side was Mary. She regarded her sister a moment. Anne suspected the black rings under Mary’s eyes matched
her own, but Mary bore no expression which indicated guilt or suffering. Anne dropped her gaze to her lap, pressed her fingers against each other.

Lord’s day. She may have murdered on Lord’s day.

If only there was a way of finding out if anyone had perished in the fire, but Mary had warned her not to open her mouth, not to mention the fire. They did not want suspicion brought upon them.

Perhaps she would feel comforted if they had at least been successful in their quest to release Lazodeus from his imprisonment. With Lazodeus’s arms around her, she could be healed of any woe. He would no doubt be able to explain why it was more important to save a loved angel than to value human life …

But she must stop thinking like this. Mary had been quite clear: they didn’t know that anyone had been hurt, and it was a good chance that all they had effected was a loss of property and not life. Besides, Mary had said, any consequence of the fire they started was accidental. They intended no harm to anyone.

And in some brief moments, Anne could even take comfort in knowing that it was Mary who lit the fire, not herself. Anne had pleaded with her not to. Why, she was hardly a murderer when seen in that light.

The sermon finished and Anne drew deep breaths as her family arose around her.

“Will you take me to Master Allard, Deborah?” Father asked.

“Certainly, Father.”

Mary and Anne filed out into the bright morning air. Mary pressed her back against the wall and yawned. “Is it not foul how Father treats Deborah like his wife while Betty is away?”

“I do not believe he does. Father cannot see and so with Betty away —”

Mary waved a dismissive hand. “For goodness sake, don’t defend them.”

Anne looked back at her wordlessly. Too tired to speak.

“We have to find out where Simmons lives.”

“We are not setting any more fires.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “You can stay home this time. Lazodeus would probably prefer it if I saved him. He must be able to tell I care more.”

“You do not care more!” This exchange was growing old between them. Anne shrugged. “I will do what I have to.”

“Good, here comes Deborah. Ask her where Simmons lives.”

“Me?”

“She doesn’t trust me.”

Deborah emerged from the church.

“Where is Father?” Anne asked.

“He is still speaking with Master Allard.” Deborah adjusted her bonnet on her head. “You look tired, Anne. Did you not sleep well?”

Anne shook her head. “I have been troubled by terrible dreams.”

Deborah glanced at Mary then back at Anne. “Some say that troubling dreams are the sign of a soul in torment.”

“Deborah,” Anne said, ignoring her comment, “does Father’s friend Simmons live close by?”

“Why do you want to know?” Deborah narrowed her eyes.

“I am curious.”

Deborah shook her head and laughed; a short cynical laugh. “Oh, Annie. It has come too far for this, do you not see? I know the two of you destroyed Father’s drafts, I know Simmons’s printery was vandalised, and I know it has something to do with the
angel. Do you think I’m a fool? Do you think that you can once again be my dear, beloved sister, when all you have done of late is aimed at ruining Father’s work?”

“Father only loves you because you are free labour,” Mary hissed, leaning in between them. “You were better to take our side. At least we have always loved you for who you are.”

Deborah turned wide hazel eyes on her, and was about to open her mouth to rebut her comment when Father joined them, Master Allard guiding him by the elbow.

“Here are your girls, John.”

“Thank you, Laurence,” Father said. Deborah took his arm.

“What fine young women they have grown into,” Master Allard said. “You must be mightily proud.”

Father without a trace of irony said, “Daughters, Laurence, are nothing but trouble. Would that I had had sons.”

Anne watched Deborah’s face fall with disappointment. Mary gave a smile of triumph.

“Come,” Deborah said, “let us return home.”

“Where is Liza? I’m starving!” Mary paced the kitchen one more time while Father frowned.

“Mary, sit still. Liza will be here soon enough.” Mary leaned on the back of her chair. Liza had gone out for bread half an hour ago. Deborah had made soup for supper, but Father wouldn’t let them eat until the bread arrived. The four of them waited around the kitchen table in uncomfortable silence.

Today had been a complete waste of time. After church, Mary had laid down for a second only to wake four hours later. Stupid Anne hadn’t woken her, so nearly a whole day had been lost. Now she had to wait until after supper to take Anne aside and discuss a new
plan. How hard could it be to find Simmons’s address? Someone would know it. First thing tomorrow — Monday morning — they could go and ask questions at the printery, or perhaps she could press one of her friends of influence to help. Wallace certainly owed her a favour or two.

“I said sit down!” Father roared, and Mary dazedly realised that she had been pacing once again. Just as she dropped into her seat, Liza bustled in.

“What took so long?” Mary asked.

Liza turned agitatedly on Father. Her eyes were glowing and her face flushed.

“Sir, I have —”

“Where’s the bread?” Mary asked, for Liza had laid nothing on the table.

“Is there no bread?” Father said. “You have been gone a long time to come back empty-handed.”

“Sir, I have news,” Liza managed to squeeze out. “There is a fire down by the river, burning out of control along Thames Street.”

“A fire?”

“Yes, sir. There is talk of it everywhere. It started early in the morning, and has since burned down four hundred houses.”

“Four hundred!” Anne gasped. “Has anyone been killed?”

Liza turned to her. “That I know not, Miss Anne. But my sister lives at the top of Fish Street Hill and I would like to go and check on her.” She turned to Father. “Please, sir. I’m terribly worried.”

“Of course, of course,” Father said. “You must see if she needs you. How far beyond Fish Street is it burning, Liza? As far as Gracechurch Street?”

Mary saw Deborah glance at Father, her breath held tight on her lips, and knew instantly that this was the street that Simmons lived on. Perhaps their little fire
was destined to destroy the manuscript after all. She waited calmly for Liza’s answer.

“Not yet, sir, but folks are moving their goods out and taking to the river. The fire is so hot that the engines cannot get near it, and people are in such a panic that they’ve pulled the pipes out of the ground. There is no water to be had anywhere from Billingsgate to Cold Harbour.”

“A terrible thing, a terrible thing indeed,” Father said.

“What is the matter, Father?” Mary asked, hoping to draw him out. “We are so far from Fish Street, it surely won’t burn our house down.”

Father’s eyelids shot up. “What? Is it only our losses that you feel concern for, Mary? Four hundred houses are burned, is that not a terrible thing?”

Mary cringed down in her seat. “Yes, Father,” she murmured.

“Liza, go immediately, and stay safe. If your sister and her family need a place to stay they can sleep in Betty’s bed until she returns.” He turned to Deborah. “Deborah, we need to get a letter to Simmons immediately, to tell him to return
Paradise Lost.
To make another fair copy would take too long; we cannot lose it.”

“We shall do it first thing in the morning, Father, for the post is finished for the evening,” Deborah said, keeping a studied impassiveness to her expression.

“I shall take the letter to him myself, Father,” Mary said. “If you tell me where on Gracechurch Street he lives. I shall take it tonight.”

Father huffed. “It won’t be necessary. The fire is still near the river. He lives at the top of Gracechurch Street near Bishopsgate. The manuscript will be safe for now.”

Deborah hung her head with a barely audible groan. Mary smiled. A trip to Gracechurch Street at dawn
would solve this problem easily. Lazodeus would be pleased with her.

Liza returned from her sister’s around mid-morning the next day to pack some clothes, then left again. She was to accompany her sister to their father’s house at Smithfield. Her sister had lost everything. Father told her to take two or three days, and Deborah chastised herself for being so surprised at his generosity.

“With Betty away and Liza away, the household shall fall apart,” she joked as she sat with him to write the letter to Simmons.

“The household will manage, for I have three able-bodied daughters,” Father replied gruffly. “Though only one is yet awake.”

“I believe they were up very late. I heard much hushed talking until the small hours,” Deborah responded, careful not to colour her voice. For the demon key was as much responsible for her sisters’ long slumber. She wanted the letter to go to Simmons before they were lurking about to glean further details of his address, or worse, get there ahead of her.

“Only drunkards and babies sleep this late. If not for you, Deborah, I should despair of my children.”

“Yesterday you told Master Allard you would have preferred sons.”

“Of course I would have.”

“You would have preferred a son to me?”

Father puffed up his shoulders and tapped his finger on the arm of his chair. “Enough nonsense. Let us get this letter written.”

Deborah’s hand shook as she dipped her pen. Why did her father’s opinion still have such power to affect her? Why could she not just take his initial compliment without pushing to hear him disavow his sentiments to
Master Allard? And why could she not trust that he would rather have her than a son?

A loud knock at the door startled her. She put her pen aside. “I shall see who it is, Father.”

Simmons himself stood at the front door when she opened it.

“Mr Simmons?”

“Deborah, is your Father here?”

“Yes. If you wait sir, I shall fetch him.”

She quickly brought Father, casting an anxious glance towards the stairs. She had only asked that her sisters sleep for a few hours longer, not deeper. The noise of visitors might wake them.

“Simmons, is everything well?” Father asked, extending a pale shaking hand.

“Yes, yes. You have heard, I suppose, of the fire?”

“I can barely take a breath without being reminded. The air is laced with smoke. And Deborah tells me the sky is the colour of dull bronze.”

“’Tis unstoppable. The entire west side of the city is in uproar. You are lucky to live so far beyond the city walls. Fire posts have been established at all the gates, but already thirty churches have been burned, and as I left my home this morning the smoke was gusting up my street as though it intended to suffocate me.”

“And my manuscript?”

“Safe, John. The stationers and printers have all stored their paper in St Faith’s, below St Paul’s. Only the very fires of hell could burn through Paul’s stone. But I, alas, must take my leave from London. I do not expect to find a home when I return.”

“Surely it is not so bad?”

“’Tis ravenous. The mayor has ordered a firebreak be made and buildings are now being pulled down south along Cornhill. My house stands between the fire and the break. A sacrifice.” Simmons snorted a
nervous laugh. “But your
Paradise Lost
is safe, John. A masterpiece. I wept when I finished.”

“I am glad to hear it is safe, but I trust you did not trouble yourself too much. I have all my drafts still.”

Deborah’s stomach curdled.

“No, I dropped a number of important papers there. It is my business, not trouble.”

He glanced behind him. “I must go. My wife waits for me at the bottom of the street. We have packed as much as possible on a cart, and we leave for her father’s home immediately.”

“Good luck, Simmons. Haply I shall hear from you soon.”

They saw him off and Father turned to Deborah. “What do you think of this fire, then?”

“It has been extreme dry and windy, Father,” she said as she led him back to the study. “But I think Mary was right when she said it would not reach us here.”

“Yes. For the walls of the city will not burn.”

“No, Father.” She could hear the sounds of movement upstairs. “I think my sisters are awake.”

Father nodded as he sat in his chair. Deborah took to the stairs, meeting Mary and Anne halfway. Mary was clearly annoyed, but Anne merely looked bewildered. Deborah knew she should have felt guilty: using the demon key on her sisters was a terrible betrayal. But instead she felt a great pride at saving Father’s manuscript.

“You slept so long, sisters, you have missed all the excitement,” she said, blocking the stairs.

“What excitement, you foul creature?” Mary asked. “Do you know how late it is? We have nearly lost half the day. Why did you not wake us?”

“Liza has left, and Simmons came by.”

“Simmons?”

“Yes, his house is burned.”

Mary smiled, but her smile soon faded. “Why do you look so happy?”

“Because the poem is safe, and you shall never find it.”

“I
will
find it.”